


Malebolge

by TiggyMalvern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Inferno (Dante), M/M, Manipulation, Medical Malpractice, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Ravage Anthology, everything awful about season one Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: The evolution of Hannibal’s emotional relationship with Will Graham. As told from the perspective of a cannibalistic serial killer who would score highly on the Levenson Psychopathy Scale…
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 40
Kudos: 104
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Malebolge** \- literal translation 'evil ditches'. The term used to describe the various pits of hell where victims are tortured occurred to their differing sins in Dante's Inferno.
> 
> I wrote my story for @lovecrimebooks wonderful Ravage anthology, under the category of the eighth circle of sin, 'Fraud', and then my brain wouldn't stop. Chapter one of this fic is an edited and extended version of the story that appears in the Ravage zine. Chapters two to four are a lot more of it!
> 
> Massive thanks for inspiring this story go to the fabulous Jamie and Romina, whose brilliant concept laid the foundations for everything. And of course to Dante, for writing one of the world's most admired self-insert fanfics, full of the weirdest imagery to hijack :-)
> 
> And huge thanks to [DreamerInSilico](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico), who had to go far beyond the usual beta duties with this one.

It began as an interesting experiment.

He’d heard the gossip about Will Graham, the criminologist who reconstructed murder in his mind. It was difficult to avoid. There was a great deal of speculation among people who should have known better, attempting to analyse and diagnose a subject few of them had ever met. Hannibal considered it all extremely unprofessional.

When he personally encountered the man in Jack Crawford’s office, Graham was arrogant and defensive from their first introduction. Upon challenge, his instinct was to bite back, staring Hannibal down, furious, unhesitating; Hannibal saw no sign of the retiring social deficient the rumours spoke of, and some of the more cautiously whispered suspicions about him developed roots within his own head. Accordingly, he arranged the opportunity for Mister Graham to experience violence directly.

The outcome of that exposure was immediately, viscerally delightful, but the interpretation remained curiously opaque.

It’s not until Will is in his office, telling him in words low and fierce that he _liked_ killing Garret Jacob Hobbs that Hannibal is certain.

Will Graham is a fraud.

******

He’s not a fraud in the academic sense – his qualifications and expertise are well documented, and his papers demonstrate valid and original insights. There’s no questioning his intellectual capacity.

This brilliant man sits opposite Hannibal now, reaching forward over his knees, delicate quivers through his interlocked fingers; his tension is practically audible in the air, hanging there like the lingering vibrations of a harpsichord note as he awaits Hannibal’s response.

Hannibal breathes the scent of him through his nose; the heavy odour of dogs, the cheap lemon soap of his recent shower clashing with that unfortunate aftershave, and beneath it all the sharp, rising acidity of fear. He leans closer, more conspiratorial, more intimate. “Killing must feel good to God too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”

Will breaks the contact then, dropping his eyes away, a brief shake of his head, but the relief flares brilliant behind the rapid blinking of his lids and there’s a tremor quick and deep through every layer of muscle at the memory of it, invoked by Hannibal’s words.

Oh. He doesn’t just like it. He _loves_ it.

“Depends who you ask,” Will says, and he glances down into his lap, tongue flicking out to wet his lips between shaking breaths.

Even better. Will has already broken free of the indoctrinations of a religious upbringing, no fear of a southern evangelical’s fire and brimstone or Dante’s gloriously poetic vision of eternal torment in a boiling river of blood to hold him back from his desires. He can learn to cast aside the shackles of his social conditioning just as cleanly.

It will be easier for Will with the right encouragement, a friend close by to offer steadfast guidance.

Hannibal speaks to Will of the world’s violence, of the power and unpredictability of a creator’s punishments, and those distressed, seeking eyes come back to meet his own.

******

Progress is slow, but it is progress.

During the early sessions, Will remains wrapped in layers and rarely settles, circling the edges of the office, perusing bookshelves and staring out of windows, making use of the obvious props to distance himself from the setting, from Hannibal. When he succumbs to Hannibal’s questions and talks, his fingers curl tight around the arms of his chair.

The first time Will peels off his coat before he sits, Hannibal considers it a personal victory.

He debates the wisdom of asking directly, when the alternative is leaving Will in this amenable state, but the demands of his curiosity are stronger. “You seem in particularly good temper this evening, Will.”

Will dips his head and fiddles with the keys in his pocket. “I went to visit Abigail at the hospital today.”

Abigail. The cause behind his lightened mindset is revealed, and Hannibal cloaks his disappointment with a question. “How did you find your wounded charge?”

Will doesn’t deny the term Hannibal applies, though it lacks any legal standing. “Serious. Smart. Practical.” There’s a smile soft on his lips, and it transforms his face from the tense suspicions he normally exudes in this space. “I think she’ll be okay.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Hannibal tilts his head as he studies Will, stating his opinion with matter-of-fact calm rather than clinical detachment. “From my own interactions and my discussions with Doctor Bloom, her recovery is proceeding well.” Will doesn’t respond, so Hannibal returns to the direct line of questioning, harder to ignore. “Do you plan to continue meeting with Abigail? Doctor Bloom has advised against it.”

Will’s face twists at his words. “She thinks I’m too close to what happened to her.”

“Shared trauma carries some risk of attachment.” Hannibal allows his tone to offer no judgement, only fact.

“That doesn’t seem likely on her part,” Will says, dry as sun-bleached bones. “I killed her father.”

“And on yours?”

Will looks up, his gaze wandering the rows of bookcases. “I’m not attached, but I do feel some measure of responsibility.” His fingers tap soundless on the leather arm of his chair. “Is it possible to assuage responsibility from a distance?”

“It is rarely possible to do so well,” Hannibal concedes.

Will finally fixes his eyes on Hannibal, blatant, confrontational. “Alana advised against spending time with Abigail for you too.”

“So she did.” Hannibal uncrosses his legs as he shifts forward in his seat and shares with Will his own smile. “It seems we are to be accomplices in our sins.”

******

He offers to feed Will’s dogs while Will investigates murders in more distant states. Sees the brief flash of hope in Will’s eyes before he blinks and shakes his head. “I… seven dogs is a lot, and it’s a long drive from Baltimore.”

“I’m not unfamiliar with animals, Will,” Hannibal assures him. “My lifestyle now is different, but as a child I was surrounded by land and livestock of every kind.”

Will shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the inevitable. “I don’t really know how long I’ll be gone and they need to be let out three times a day. It would wreak havoc with your schedule.”

Hannibal leans forward with a quick, conspiratorial smile. “One of the privileges of running my own practice is that I make my own hours.” He sits back into his chair, resting one hand over his stomach. “Besides, this wouldn’t be purely for your benefit. My hobbies have me spending too much time indoors, cooking and composing music. It would be favourable to my health to go walking more.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Will hesitates one last time, then eases his hand free with a rattle of keys. “I’ll give you my spare.”

He twists one loose from the spiral and hands it over, and his smile is wide and real, and definitely not for Abigail.

******

Will’s house reflects the glimpses Hannibal has been allowed of the man’s mind – an odd contrast of clutter, with mismatched chairs indicating a preference for practicality and comfort over design, set against the meticulous alignment of his rows of socks and shirts.

There are relics here of other lives that aren’t Will’s. The piano is out of tune because Will doesn’t play. He wouldn’t tolerate any tool or instrument of his being maintained in less than perfect order. Nor does he seem a likely purchaser of china dogs or gilded table lamps.

These belongings are the detritus of strangers, not the man who sits opposite Hannibal speaking of death, as drawn by it as he is appalled.

The dogs nuzzle at his knees and thighs, hoping for a further supply of sausage. Hannibal rubs his fingers through the fur over a heavy skull, looks down at pricked ears and intent eyes.

Will isolates himself out here, selecting as his companions these fellow predators who cannot see who he is and would never judge him for his nature. Yet his denial of attachment to Abigail rings more hollow each time her name echoes from his lips. He is a hermit who grabs for the first semblance of family within reach, yearning for companionship, haunted by the yawning absence of another that no number of dogs can ever fill.

Will’s life beyond his work is a construct, a lie deliberately tailored to distract the watching world. Hannibal has been musing upon Will’s place in the river of blood, but now he is struck by a vision of him wrapped in the cloak of one of Dante’s tortured hypocrites - a mantle gilded and hooded, pulled low around the eyes to wholly conceal the man inside. It is the cloak of everlasting weariness, a camouflage lined with dense layers of lead; its bearer is crushed by the weight of it, condemned to walk forever in fatigue, joints creaking with the strain of their deceit.

In his determination to avoid the sins of his deepest urges, of violence and murder, Will has condemned himself to the implacable burden of the eighth circle of hell in its stead. A load he carries through his life rather than into his eternal death.

Hannibal studies the fishing lures on the desk, precisely assembled miniatures; detailed, intricate constructions pieced together with care and a singular purpose to hunt. They are among the few items in this house that are truly Will.

This is where Hannibal leaves his mark.

******

Three days later, Will rushes into Hannibal’s office, tossing his bag onto the chaise and dragging his jacket from his shoulders, frustrated by his inability to buy Abigail an appropriate present.

He’s more casual now in Hannibal’s space, a natural sequela to increasing intimacy, to Hannibal being granted access to his own home. With any other patient Hannibal would consider it an insufferable imposition; with Will it is a pleasing indication of the hypocrite’s hood sliding back a few centimetres from his face, of his willingness to expose more of himself to Hannibal’s sight.

He’s angry over more than the gift; his current case with the missing boys is accentuating his urge to help the one child within his reach.

“Abigail’s lost too.” Hannibal states the unspoken, and Will pauses in his wandering, resting against the pillar. “Perhaps it’s our responsibility, yours and mine, to help her find her way.”

Will turns back towards him then, finding his eyes and holding them, steady, unwavering. “What do you have in mind?”

“I plan to invite Abigail to my home, make dinner for her. She needs to re-establish herself in the world outside the hospital, and a pleasant meal in a safe environment would be a good beginning.” He tilts his head and wets his lower lip with his tongue. “You could consider joining us.”

Hannibal is hopeful that Will may relax and reveal more of his inner self away from the clinical setting. Curious what might be exposed beneath the cloak if he partakes of the psilocybin tea.

Will hesitates, his fingers twitching within his pocket. “Maybe, I guess? Depends on my schedule, just… let me know when.”

It’s not a commitment, but Hannibal accepts that for now it is all he will get.

******

Hannibal signs Abigail out of the hospital and prepares the tea as they cook together, but Will doesn’t come.

Perhaps it’s too soon.

It doesn’t feel too soon. Everything regarding Will Graham feels at least a decade too late.

Violence isn’t intrinsically interesting to Hannibal – it’s so common in the human population as to be depressingly mundane – and it’s not Will’s suppressed propensity for killing that makes him unusual. It’s his ability to fully experience it, to elevate the act beyond mere anger or revenge and understand its application as a transcendental art form that renders him so uniquely captivating. Hearing Will lecture on the copycat murder, how Hannibal had reprised Hobbs’ motifs and elaborated on them to illuminate his flaws, that had truly been a revelation.

Abigail’s meal is shared with an engagingly irate Alana instead. Despite her fiery charm, her company on this occasion can only be a disappointment.

It wouldn’t have been possible to deceive Will with excuses about giving Abigail half a valium. Will would have needed and earned the truth.

******

Will sprawls in the chair, head tipped back, legs stretched over the floorboards. His fingers are restless in his lap, dragging over the cheap cotton of his pants.

Hannibal lowers the lighting for these evenings with Will. The soft shadows draw the walls closer, the large space becoming more confiding, more intimate. The heavy marks beneath Will’s eyes are distinct even in the subdued illumination, his skin sagging and aged by fatigue. “You look tired, Will.”

Will blinks several times, as if surprised by the break in the silence. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“More bad dreams?”

“Bad dreams, strange dreams.” Will takes a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling rather than at Hannibal. “Sometimes I don’t know what to call them.”

Will rarely describes them, only admits that he has them.

He sees himself kill. Hannibal doesn’t need to be told that.

Will’s going to tell him more, eventually. Hannibal’s sure the details will be… stimulating.

“I had thought you might rest easier after your success this week.” Will feels less threatened when they discuss his work rather than his mental state directly; it leads to him being more open, more revealing. “Jack tells me you were instrumental in saving the child, your lost boy.”

Will’s mouth twists into a grimace. “I didn’t save him from anything. He was brainwashed for months, traumatised by witnessing multiple murders, and now he’ll spend years in an institution.”

“You saved his family,” Hannibal says, letting his voice lift and flow warmer. “They love him. They’ll visit him, and they’ll be there when he’s released.”

Will lets out a long sigh and appears to sink further into the leather. “You know what’s the worst thing about it? Those boys weren’t kidnapped. They weren’t dragged crying and screaming into that RV. They chose to leave. They left their families because they thought what they had wasn’t good enough.”

“Is that why your mother left?” Hannibal asks quietly. “Hoping for something more?”

Will’s fingers tap along his thigh again. “I never knew. Dad wouldn’t talk about her.” His words are clipped, but he doesn’t return to full tension. “Eventually I quit asking.”

“Would it have helped you to know?”

Will raises his eyebrows, his voice stretching, sarcastic, defensive. “Whether she was leaving him or leaving me?” He shakes his head, and his words dull again. “No. She was gone either way.”

“Did you ever try to find her?” Hannibal pauses, studying Will before he continues. “Did you consider making use of the property records or police databases?” It would be illegal, but certainly not unheard of for a police officer to conduct a private search.

“I thought about it.” Will’s lips twitch at the corner, and bitterness floods through his words. “Then I thought if she wanted to be found, she’d have shown up already.”

Behind his cynicism, Will clutches for the idea of love. His Beatrice is always far beyond his reach, but he is no fool for her image; once rejected, he is slow to forgive, and the offending party must make a gesture first. “Perhaps she believed the same of you.”

“I’d say that’s more her responsibility than mine, wouldn’t you?” Another drawn out breath, and the bite is gone from his tone, leaving only resignation as his eyes roam along the bookshelves. “Some people don’t want a family.”

“While others want theirs very much but lose them all the same,” Hannibal says gently. He and Will have many similarities, beyond the immediate draw of their shared natures.

Will looks down into his lap where his hands splay wide over his pants. “Abigail lost both her parents. She lost her father without knowing what he was, and now she does, she feels cheated of him twice over. Even the father she had was a lie.”

Abigail again. Her influence on Will’s thoughts shows no signs of fading, and Hannibal has already incorporated her into his plans. “You’re still certain she was innocent of her father’s actions?”

Will meets his eyes again then, fierce, protective. “How could she have known he wanted to kill her and lived with it?”

“Abigail is immensely practical,” Hannibal says. He tilts his head, considering Will as he lists the facts. “She could have attempted to report her father, but without proof, it’s unlikely she would have been believed. She would only have incited his violence. And if she had chosen to leave, where would she have gone? She had no other family to turn to.”

“You’re siding with Jack on this?”

“I’m considering all the possibilities.” Hannibal holds Will’s gaze, steady, certain, unblinking. “I don’t want you to place Abigail on a pedestal of idealism, Will. The flawless family doesn’t exist.”

Will’s fingers are soft again, no longer curled into the cloth. “No. But she’ll get a better one next time.” He blinks his eyes slowly as the air drains from between his parted lips, opens them again to fix on Hannibal. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Hannibal leans forwards, his elbows resting on his thighs, his voice carrying total certainty. “Yes. We will.”

******

When Will finally visits Hannibal in his home, his arrival is preceded by a phone call at dawn, his voice twisted and heightened by fear. Hannibal arranges an artfully ruffled look, softened, sleepy, approachable, and Will pours forth a tale of sleep-walking and being driven home by the police. Their fingers brush lightly as he passes Will his coffee, and he doesn’t flinch at the contact.

Will sips at his sweetened drink, his dry humour re-emerging beneath the discussion of trauma and loss of control. “You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. I’m beginning to feel more like an old mug.”

The pattern is clear by now. When Will is stressed and distracted, he forgets his ingrained fear of Hannibal as a therapist and responds instinctively to his need for companionship, for recognition by someone who understands. “You entered into a devil’s bargain with Jack Crawford. It takes a toll.”

“Well, Jack isn’t the devil.”

“When it comes to how far he’s willing to push you to get what he wants, he’s certainly no saint.”

Will pauses and blinks, staring down into his cup as he considers.

Will Graham turning to him for advice, for reassurance, wanting him to be there, needing him to be there – it is intoxicating.

Hannibal can arrange for Will’s stress levels to increase and speed his adaptation.

That afternoon, he flicks through his rolodex and considers another triptych of kills by the Chesapeake Ripper. Jack has a fixation with that particular alter ego of his, and Jack’s frustrations roll rapidly downhill onto Will. Hannibal very much enjoyed educating Will on the nature of Garret Jacob Hobbs by illustrating everything he wasn’t. Perhaps this time he could show Will what he himself is not.

His fingers stop at the card of Kevin Foley, the photographer – he would appreciate a dramatic portrait with himself as the centrepiece.

Hannibal has grown rather fond of the image of Will Graham in his weighted hypocrite’s cloak. Foley belongs alongside him in the eighth circle of the Inferno, among the ranks of the flatterers and thieves. His attempts to insinuate himself with the older, lonely and more vulnerable patrons of the opera at the fundraiser last year were quite transparent. He would be well suited to having snakes curl around and through him, binding his wrists at his back in their coils.

Hannibal spends two evenings studying the habits and living arrangements of Mister Foley, but the third is his scheduled session with Will. Will is tense again, disturbed by his recurrent bouts of sleepwalking, and he prowls the office while they talk of a killer who constructs images from his own skewed imagination, reversing the Fall and flaying demons into the form of angels.

Hannibal’s aware of a very distinctive scent clinging to Will; there’s a fever rising within him, inflammation rich and sweet. It hangs heavy somewhere beneath the odour of dogs, warmer, and he draws closer to inhale more detail from it.

Will twitches and turns to him with narrowed eyes. “Did you just smell me?” Of course Will noticed. Hannibal would have been disappointed had he remained oblivious to the shadow of a predator behind him.

He comments on the quality of Will’s aftershave and is unsurprised to be told that Will doesn’t purchase his own. He wears even this scent as part of his disguise, a layer of someone else’s tastes to prevent any analysis of his own.  
Will’s cloak of hypocrisy is donned in reverse, the outside presented leaden and grey, a pretence of cheap mundanity concealing the unique golden brilliance of his true desires.

With this new detail of disease, Hannibal revises his plans yet again. Will’s brain is providing its own stressors, cytokines and autacoids triggering a cascade of inflammation throughout the tissues. The Chesapeake Ripper can remain dormant for now while Hannibal makes use of the opportunity nature has presented.

Encephalitis is in many ways a pleasing diagnosis; Hannibal had been concerned by the increasing frequency and negative effects of Will’s dreams, fearing that Will’s mind might be rejecting his enjoyment of the kill and twisting it into nightmares. Instead the disease is only unleashing him, assisting Hannibal’s efforts to deconstruct the barriers he has built around and within himself and bring his needs to full visibility.

Hannibal watches Will compulsively swallow his pills, the non-steroidals utterly ineffective against the power of his own immune system, and he smiles the gentle concern of a friend as each day Will draws closer to his true self, and to Hannibal.

******

Hannibal has reasons to be glad of his decision to reprieve Kevin Foley over the following weeks. The Chesapeake Ripper receives more than enough exposure, both through the media and within the FBI, first by Abel Gideon’s claims upon his persona and then via the woefully inadequate surgical skills of an organ harvester.

Hannibal is forced to reactivate the Ripper to preserve his own reputation from detriment. If he’d begun his plan to present Will with kills showcasing his own flaws, his own hypocrisy, Will might have made the leap too soon, forming connections his mind isn’t yet fully ready to accept. The seeds are all planted, the soil within him is more than fertile, but the first sprouting leaves remain too delicate to be exposed to the full force of the storm that true understanding would bring.

It delights Hannibal to see Will as focussed on him as Hannibal is on Will. Will initiates more frequent contact now, coming to the office during daylight hours to solicit Hannibal’s opinion on his cases, and he understands instinctively that the body in the bathtub is far too shoddy to be Hannibal’s work. He drinks wine with him during their evening appointments, exhibiting ever deeper levels of social comfort.

Hannibal is less pleased when Will doesn’t arrive for their scheduled session. It’s a level of rudeness difficult to tolerate even from Will, but beneath the irritation flits a degree of concern that Will’s absence might be involuntary.  
Will is immediately forgiven when Hannibal finds him drifting, surrounded by images of Hannibal’s designs and absorbed to the point of complete mental absence.

Hannibal has never seen Will work on his reconstructions before; they’ve only discussed likely profiles out of context, and when Will rouses himself and describes to Hannibal the Ripper’s thinking, his own motivations, the imagery he uses is artistic and note perfect. “These aren’t the Ripper’s enemies, these are pests he swatted.”

Will’s mind is fascinating, simultaneously tangled and divided like the layers of chasms and bridges in the eighth circle he forces himself to live in; his brain is beautiful in its complexity, and Hannibal is embedding there, both as himself and as his alter ego.

The sunken pits of Dante’s landscape are guarded, its punishments enforced by demons. Hannibal will fill the ditches in Will’s mind, mend the broken bridges and lead him to his truest self. When Will eventually combines all the aspects of Hannibal in his head and casts aside his leaden cloak, he will leave the ranks of suffering sinners and take charge of his world, joyously wreaking his devilish retribution on those whose actions offend him.

Hannibal’s own mental connections flare at the image and he’s suffused by the knowledge that Will already does so, indirectly. He doesn’t merely analyse the killers he studies; he momentarily _becomes_ them.

Will had voiced strong objections to the naming of Jack’s Evil Minds Museum (reports of _that_ confrontation had made their way through the corridors of gossip with some speed), but he attended its opening all the same. He had to look, to see it, to live it.

Perhaps even to encourage it. Most serial killers have a history of studying others. A shrine like that is certain to attract admirers of a certain mindset. What would Will Graham do, if he couldn’t subsume his urges by re-living the thrill of killing vicariously? He must have a steady supply of murder to keep his own needs in remission.

Will may not be crafting his eternal resting place among the hypocrites of the eighth circle after all. He may be more suited to damnation alongside the panderers who also dwell there, those who ‘deliberately exploited the passions of others and so drove them to serve their own interests.’

Sayers’ translation of Dante’s verse isn’t one Hannibal considers definitive, too constrained by her rigid adherence to rhyme, but her commentary is at times insightful.

The resemblance between her description and his own habit of influence isn’t lost upon him either. Perhaps he and Will might spend eternity there together.

Minos with his winding serpent’s tail would find it a task worthy of Hercules to decide where in his domain to place a single soul of such varied sins as Hannibal Lecter. Will Graham will present him with a similar challenge, and a smile stretches at the corners of Hannibal’s lips.

******

Will calls the office a few days later to check for scheduled patients, driving more than an hour through the falling snow after Hannibal assures him he’ll be welcome.

He sheds his coat when he walks in, but he doesn’t sit. He stalks the edges of the office, arms hugged across his chest, his soles tapping over the wood as he circles the bookshelves. He’s stressed, but not by Hannibal’s presence.

The light from the windows is thin, strained by overcast, but enough to cast his features in stark relief; the dip of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes, the arc of a curl over his forehead. If ever there was an angel on the verge of Falling captured in paint by a master, Will Graham would be their vision as oil met canvas.

Hannibal doesn’t push, only waits for Will to settle. He wouldn’t have come here if he planned to stay silent.

Eventually Will leans back against Hannibal’s desk, looks up towards the ceiling and says, “I think I’m hearing things.”

Hannibal is both surprised, and not. It’s an expected symptom of his progressing encephalitis, but for Will to admit this openly, unprovoked, is a giant step forward.

Hannibal supports himself at the opposite end of the desk, leaving space yawning between them; he won’t risk Will feeling trapped when he’s offering trust. “What do you believe you heard?”

Will sucks in a breath before he answers, but his words are smooth and steady. “I was at home yesterday, in my living room. I heard an animal outside in pain, heard it being attacked.”

Hannibal is still, his own voice quiet and naturally paced. “You’re sure it didn’t actually happen?”

“It was almost noon, hardly the peak time for predators.” Will takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes, lays the spectacles down beside him on top of one of Hannibal’s textbooks. “I went to look anyway.” His face twists in a flash of bitter humour. “I even took Alana along. Had to convince myself, one way or the other.”

Hannibal looks at his own hands clasped before him, then slides his gaze sideways, sees the letters of the Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy uniform and undistorted through the lens. As he’s long suspected, Will’s eyesight is normal; he needs no corrective prescription.

Will cannot wear a literal hooded cloak to conceal his true nature, but the glasses hide his eyes and his face from the world almost as well.

“False auditory signals reaching the brain aren’t unusual,” Hannibal says. “The most common physiological manifestations arise as tinnitus, but in your case, I would suggest stress is a more likely cause.” He turns his head to set his gaze heavy on Will. “Have you been stressed again, Will?” He doesn’t mention Jack by name – he doesn’t have to.

Will looks away again, his face twisting. “Not then. Jack called me into a new crime scene this morning, but that wouldn’t explain yesterday.”

“Everything you heard was distant noises?” Hannibal asks. “Repetition of similar frequencies and non-specific sounds?”

Will’s eyes slant sideways at him and his tone turns biting. “If I’m having auditory hallucinations, does it matter what they are?”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows and offers Will a gentle smile. “I would find it more concerning if you were hearing voices giving you instructions from God, or Lucifer.”

Will’s face creases and there’s a huff of air that might be a laugh as he meets Hannibal’s eyes. “Yeah. Me too.” He pushes himself upright and moves away from the desk – not evasive, only vibrating with excess energy.  
His glasses are left to lie on the desk, on top of the book. Will lets the hood slide a few centimetres back from his ears in this space now, allows Hannibal glimpses of Will’s own truth.

He will only show so much at one sitting, and Hannibal is pleased enough with what he’s seen. He walks behind the desk, shuffling idly at the papers there, and elects to move on to a subject Will is comfortable with. “Tell me about this new killer of yours.”

Will stands propped against the pillar and talks, and Hannibal listens, reaching into the nuance of every phrase as Will reveals the orchestral murderer taking shape and making music within his mind.

******

Will pays him another visit that same evening, but this time at his home, and unannounced. Perhaps it’s a little inconvenient for him not to have called first, but Hannibal is delighted to find him in his hallway all the same, at least until Will announces the reason for his arrival. “I kissed Alana Bloom.”

Will entering a romantic relationship hasn’t been factored into Hannibal’s plans, and his rage flares at the intrusion, fierce and bright.

Will surges past him into the dining room, but the chill air flowing over Hannibal’s skin tells him that Tobias has already taken the opportunity to depart.

“Well. Come in,” he offers pointedly to Will’s vanishing back, before closing the doors and inviting him through to the kitchen to share dessert.

Will sought out Alana yesterday, when he went looking for his non-existent animal, and now _this._

Their growing closeness is unacceptable. Will needs to turn to Hannibal, and only Hannibal, not vacillate between two opposing sources of comfort. Hannibal has gone to great lengths to establish himself as Will’s stability, and interference won’t be tolerated.

It’s fortunate for Alana that per Will’s flustered description she has already begun to distance herself from him. Hannibal’s anger calms as Will recites his tale – not gone, but subsiding, easing into the steady, banked glow that permeates all the circles of Hell.

Alana may yet change her mind. Will might try again. Hannibal’s plans must be accelerated before either of those things happen. Will needs to be pushed further.

Will shot the mushroom cultivating pharmacist without knowing himself if he intended to kill, mired in the sucking excrement of internal conflict, held by morality from recreating the terrible delights he experienced when extinguishing the life of Garret Jacob Hobbs.

He must be induced to take another life, with no further delays. With each death at his hands, killing will grow increasingly normalised, until his desire for murder ceases to be objectionable, something to keep hidden beneath his heavy hood of shame; instead it will transform into a force to be celebrated and indulged appropriately.

Hannibal’s mind is drawn back to his recently departed dinner guest. His failure to kill Tobias tonight may be an opportunity gained rather than lost.

“Are you still hearing this musical killer’s serenade behind your eyes?”

Will laughs without humour. “It’s our song.”

The demon leader of the eighth circle signalled his troops with a bugle of his own digestive gases. The trombonist of the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra has unwittingly provided Will with a more melodious call to arms.  
Hannibal takes the dish towel from the countertop and makes a play of uncertainty, pausing before the oven and wringing it between his hands. “I hesitate telling you this as it borders on a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Will’s eyes find his immediately, searching, intent, curious; the full focus of his attention is the warmth of the sun upon the ice.

“A patient told me today he suspects a friend of his may be involved with the murder at the symphony.”

Will cannot knowingly accept Hannibal until he has first acknowledged the truth of himself, and Hannibal is determined to steer him to full understanding. Hannibal will be the Virgil to Will’s poet, guiding him through the devil-ridden confusion of his own personal inferno, leading him along the path to enlightenment that lies beyond.

“Perhaps you should interview him,” Hannibal says, and his heart pounds with the relentless force of the waterfall that plunges between the circles of Hell as he sends Will Graham into its torrent and towards his destiny.


	2. Chapter 2

Will doesn’t kill Tobias Budge.

Instead Hannibal is faced with Budge invading his office and the presence of an inconvenient witness.

Budge stands exposed by violence and pulsing with energy, the scents of blood and sweat bright among the leather and furniture polish. He exudes a physical confidence which Hannibal respects, and looks forward to shattering.

“I just killed two men. The police came to question me about the murder.”

Tobias’ words are a statement of intent, casual and proud.

Hannibal blinks, slow, the brain’s initial reluctance to accept the impossible.

And then the words form an image and his fury ignites, immediate, incandescent – it is Phlegethon itself, the fiery river of boiling blood, the Inferno incarnate rising to consume Budge and drag him down into eternity.

He swallows once, but his face is composed, his body still.

He stays silent until he’s sure of his control, a few moments and a few paces deeper into his office, behind Franklyn and out of his sight.

Franklyn’s desperate monologue is pointless, unworthy of attention. “Franklyn, I want you to leave now.”

Franklyn’s a fool, of no consequence to the world. He has always been an insignificant speck of humanity and he will remain so, yet he chooses now to attempt an impact, to divert the course of Hell’s river of flaming vengeance. He stays, with his visions of somehow touching greatness, of having _influence._

Hannibal’s rage leaves no space within for patience. If Franklyn won’t leave in one way, he will leave in another, and Hannibal steps forward to break his neck, quick and sharp.

Tobias looks up from the corpse, his stare rigid and affronted. “I was looking forward to that.”

What Hannibal has just taken from Tobias is nothing compared to what Budge has wrested from Hannibal and from the world, but there’s some small satisfaction in it all the same.

It’s nothing compared to what he’s about to take from him.

He lets Budge move first. Budge is younger and similarly practiced at physical restraint of the unwilling, and Hannibal needs to assess his speed and weaknesses before he commits.

The fight is fast, brutal, and unforgiving of his office furnishings. Hannibal is never afraid, exactly, but he’s forced to make unconventional use of a number of objects, and it’s not until he’s broken Budge’s arm that he’s confident enough to savour his breath and take his time, consider the most fitting final blow.

He enjoys it. It’s impossible not to – the immediate, physical intensity of forcibly wresting someone from life can’t be replicated or even approximated in any other way. He even enjoys the pain Budge inflicts on him, a little, the jolting reminder of mortality, of what’s at stake, of everything they’re trying to tear from one another. There can be no distraction from this, from the pure and dedicated exercise of killing.

It’s the aftermath that’s wrong. The staging is rote, mechanical, a last check for minor details out of place before he makes the phone call to the emergency services. There’s no flush of pride at his own vicious cunning while he gasps stress and exhaustion through the line; there’s only a dull functionality while he waits for the sirens to arrive, the scents of blood and urine a hollow intrusion on his thoughts.

The police paw through his space and his belongings, and he permits the paramedics to attend him without telling them he could do better himself. Perfectionism doesn’t fit his current role as a victim, or his mood. His plans have gone too awry for that.

His stunned quiet is something they all expect, if not for his reasons.

Jack Crawford strides through the already open door, his face set in ill temper, and Hannibal sits stiff behind his desk, staring, waiting for Jack to tell him that Will is dead; his prized poet, his charge, stumbled from the inferno’s bridges and plunged deep into the malebolge where Hannibal cannot retrieve him.

For a moment, two, he waits, and then Will steps out in Jack’s wake.

_Will._

He’s here.

Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on his poet, while Will’s roam over the displaced furniture, the crooked artwork and the bodies, building his living mental picture of the struggle. His artist absorbs it all, seeing beyond the paramedics and the uniformed agents to the blood and violence and death recreated, relived in rich, animated detail within his mind.

Hannibal’s air escapes him in a soft huff of breath, inevitable in the face of such beauty when he had thought it lost.

Will needs only moments to imbibe the scene, and then he comes to Hannibal, drawn always to his guide when the demons plague them. No longer pristine, his poet, marred by the lumpen arc of a poorly applied dressing around his hand, a mark of mortality that only enhances the purity of his presence.

Will sees Hannibal bloodied and real, sees the brutal destruction he wrought upon Budge, and he smiles his approval of Hannibal’s kill.

******

Will’s scheduled appointment comes in a little over a week, and Hannibal finds it odd how much he’s missed him in so short a time. He knows the spectre of loss can leave lingering imprints, but it’s been years since he discovered those marks buried in himself, the scars of his own personal demons clawed across his mind.

His smile is genuinely warm as he opens the door to his waiting room. “Hello, Will.”

Will takes off his jacket and sits, but he doesn’t lean back. He’s physically close, because of the way Hannibal has spaced the chairs, but there’s a layer of discomfort in his upright posture, an aura of distance. His eyes move around the office, examining every detail, and Hannibal says nothing after his initial greeting; he only waits for Will to speak.

Will absorbs the entire room before his gaze stabilises on Hannibal. “It’s good to see you back.”

Hannibal allows his lips to tighten and curl at one edge in a hint of wry humour. “It’s likely I’m better able to help you if I’m actually here.”

That’s not why Will’s pleased to see him resume his work. Will still feels guilt over letting Budge escape, letting him intrude into Hannibal’s life. The longer a hiatus he took, the more regret Will would feel for his imagined trauma.

It’s interesting that Will won’t say it.

Will takes a quick breath, and his eyes have returned to the furnishings. “Nobody would notice anything different. You must have gone to a lot of trouble to replace it all so quickly. Almost like nothing ever happened.”

Hannibal tilts his head a fraction to the left and his smile edges wider. “Is it to be your therapy session this evening, or mine?”

Will’s attention flashes right back to Hannibal and settles there, deliberate, assessing. “We’re just having conversations, so maybe it should be for whoever needs it.”

Hannibal meets the scrutiny, open and calm. “If it puts your mind at ease, my psychiatrist has given me full clearance to return to work.”

Will’s cheeks twitch in a moment’s humour and his eyebrows lift. “Your unconventional psychiatrist? The one you drink with?”

Hannibal tips his head in a slight nod. “Perhaps we could be equally unconventional. I would consider a glass of wine beneficial in our current circumstances.”

“Me too.” Will’s face relaxes into a smile and when Hannibal returns with the bottle, his spine is flush against the chair. It seems Hannibal has passed Will’s professional inspection.

“Has Jack found you any new killers to occupy your time?” Easiest to stick with the safely neutral subject of Will’s work while Will is concerned with Hannibal’s mental health as much as his own.

“Not yet,” Will says, and his face twists in a wry grin, humour flashed and then gone. “It’s been a whole week of routine lectures and grading assignments and much appreciated monotony. Though I think my students prefer it when my attention’s divided and I’ve less time to criticise the minor details.”

Hannibal uncorks the wine and pours while Will talks; when he hands Will the glass, their fingers slide against one another and Will doesn’t twitch or tense. Hannibal leans in a little closer than necessary and breathes dogs and engine oil and grocery store soap above the brief, sweet twist of fever, with no hint of Alana.

It seems he hasn’t missed anything while he made himself unavailable.

Hannibal’s aware, of course, that his own interest in Will isn’t entirely intellectual. The physical aspect to their chemistry is of minor importance and doesn’t alter his plans in any way.

Sexual attraction has never been a major driving force in his life, but nor does he ignore it. It’s natural, healthy, frequently shared and therefore pleasing to satisfy. At other times, it’s easily diverted onto a different partner or relieved by a few minutes of self-indulgence.

He has deliberated on the possibilities of a carnal relationship with Will, but it’s not only the (small and not for reasons of disinterest) possibility of Will declining his overtures that deters him. As his encephalitis progresses, Will’s episodes of instability are becoming more obvious to his work colleagues, people who would question the ethics and validity of a new romantic relationship. Hannibal doesn’t want the assessing eyes of the FBI turned upon himself or his burgeoning poet. He will not be joining the sinners of the second circle of the Inferno, those who were overwhelmed by their lust.

Nor does he want Alana’s influence distorting the verses his poet is destined to create.

He returns to his chair, holding Will’s eyes as he shapes his lips around the rim of the glass to take his first sip. The cabernet slides over his tongue in a rush of dark berries, tobacco and violets, with a rough acid edge from its lack of time to breathe. 

Will doesn’t blink, or drift away; he’s wholly with Hannibal as they watch each other swallow, sharing the unique experience of a bottle that would taste different opened on any other day. Like the wine, Will can only evolve and improve when he is finally exposed to the air, his individual notes elevated and sharpened. Hannibal’s anticipation for that moment when the hypocrite’s cloak will be cast aside is almost as heavy in his mouth as the cabernet.

Hannibal’s smile is soft and welcoming with the glass resting heavy on his thigh, and Will’s expression is his mirror.

******

Hannibal flicks off the light as he opens the door to the waiting room. He’s looking forward to lunch at Les Folies - chef Matrat produces an exquisite Escalope de Veau.

Will Graham is standing in his outer office, dressed for the outdoors, the bundled dark clothing accentuating the pale appearance of his skin. 

“Will. I wasn’t expecting you.” Will’s non-scheduled visits are usually preceded by a phone call to check his availability - this ad hoc arrival is new, but definitely not unwanted. Perhaps when they’ve discussed what brings him here, he can persuade Will to join him at the restaurant. 

Will rips off his hat and scarf and almost runs into the office. “I don’t know how I got here.”

He’s circling around the room, words skittering from him fast and irregular, his hands in constant, exaggerated movement as he explains that his last conscious memory was of a crime scene on a beach.

The word ‘panic’ flits across Hannibal’s mind, a small bird skulking from bush to bush, barely seen, but it fits so poorly with Will Graham that he dismisses it.

Will is concerned, frustrated and upset, all entirely understandable reactions in light of what has happened to him. 

They discuss Will’s mental state and the crime scene with the pole of bodies that appeared to have triggered this episode at some length, but it’s only when Hannibal mentions friendship and his personal concern for Will’s well-being that he calms enough to sit upon the chaise, his hands rubbing over his cheeks. His poet’s appreciation for his guide’s care is firmly established and profoundly satisfying to observe.

His suggestion that he should have a brain scan is more concerning. Will’s encephalitis has been progressing so well; it would be unfortunate to lose the opportunity it presents them both at this stage in his growth.

Hannibal is firm in returning Will’s attention to his work, how he merges into the minds of murderers, and Will doesn’t raise the subject again. Not yet. Hannibal must make plans for when he does.

“It might have been intriguing to sit alongside you today,” Hannibal says when Will is finally settled. “It would be informative to study your responses to traffic conditions and road signs while in an altered state.”

“Oh, shit, I really did that, didn’t I?” Will mutters. The use of the rare profanity is indicative of Will’s stress level, the emergence of old habits from beneath the veneer of a quiet lecturer and researcher. He inhales a long, full breath, before letting it out in a sigh. “It’s almost a four hour drive. I could have killed someone, I could have killed myself.”

“Driving is a skill that becomes deeply ingrained at a level below deliberate thought, Will,” Hannibal assures him. “How many people every day drive Baltimore’s roads while contemplating their work or their romantic entanglements and arrive at their destination with no conscious memory of the journey?”

Will raises his eyes, a sheepish hint beneath the understanding. “I might have done that a time or two myself,” he confesses.

“I suspect what you did today was much the same in nature.”

“It’s probably safer if I stop driving, though - the sleep-walking, the blackouts, they keep happening,” Will says, his words painted with reluctance. “Getting to work will be hell, there’s no transit at my house.”

“I’m not sure that would be of much benefit,” Hannibal says. “When you lost time today, you were standing on a beach; you went to your car later. A decision not to drive while you are fully conscious won’t affect the choices you make while you aren’t.”

Will shoves his hand into his pocket, a metallic jingle beneath his fingers. “Maybe I should hide my car keys.”

Hannibal allows his eyebrows to lift, ever so slightly. “That might be an interesting experiment, Will. It would be revealing whether you retain enough consciousness to remember where you hid them if something like this should happen again.”

“And really irritating when Jack calls at three in the morning and I’m groping around for them half-awake,” Will says.

“I concede your point then,” Hannibal says lightly. “Clearly your ability to find killers must take priority over my meagre contribution to the field of dissociative psychology.”

And finally, if just barely, Will smiles.

******

The following Wednesday, when Hannibal opens the door to his waiting room, he’s assaulted by the heavy odour of sweat and the high, rich note of fierce inflammation.

Will’s skin is pale where he’s not flushed with heat, and his eyes glitter from the depths of dark rings when he moves past Hannibal into the office. He’s peeling off layers of jacket and V-neck, the sharp tang of perspiration intensifying when he drops them in an inelegant pile beside his chair. He flops down onto the leather and runs a hand through the damp tangle of his curls.

Hannibal takes his seat opposite and watches the twitch through the muscles of Will’s thigh, the quick, restless snap of his eyes from hand to desk to rug, the rhythmic rise of his chest beneath the damp cotton of his shirt.

“Your sleep remains disturbed,” he says, when it becomes clear Will isn’t going to speak.

It’s not a question. They both know it doesn’t need to be.

Will doesn’t answer right away. His fingers tighten over the chair arm, and when he does speak, his words are studied, careful. “I apologised to Jack a few days ago, for acting so weird at the beach, at the crime scene.”

“How did he respond?” Hannibal’s curiosity isn’t feigned. The reactions of Will’s FBI circle will have effects on the timescale of Hannibal’s work with him.

Will’s lips twist at the corner and he huffs out breath in a way that isn’t quite laughter. “He hadn’t realised anything was wrong.”

For an intelligent man, Jack Crawford notices very little. He is entirely fooled by Will’s hypocrite’s cloak, no concept of the true value of the man who lies concealed beneath its surface.

“Jack’s focus lies more with the outcome of your talents than the details of how you employ them.” Hannibal doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to. They’ve discussed Jack’s poor duty of care more than once and stressing it directly only makes Will defensive. “Perhaps other colleagues have been more observant?”

Will’s head drops back against the chair, his curls flattened and his eyes raised upwards above the bookshelves to rest upon the ceiling. “Alana can hardly have missed it. She found me giving a lecture to an empty room yesterday, half an hour after the class had left.”

A few weeks ago, Hannibal would have needed to tease such a confession from Will. It’s likely that after arriving at the office in a dissociative fugue, he no longer fears belittling himself by revealing more. A man who has already been judged can stare down Minos and his winding tail with impunity. “What was her reaction?”

Will lifts his eyebrows and runs his tongue over his parted lips. “She called me unstable.”

Hannibal tilts his head and keeps his voice mild. “Do you disagree with her assessment?”

Will’s mouth tightens in a line before he opens it again to speak. “I can’t.”

Hannibal lets that hang in the room, one full, slow breath before he offers a solution. “Have you considered the alternatives to your current lifestyle, Will?”

Will’s head lifts and his eyes shift to meet Hannibal’s at last. “Are you suggesting a change of career?”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal’s intentions for Will go far beyond that, but Will’s leaden cloak won’t be thrown aside in the impulse of a single moment. Its weight will slip from his head and shoulders as a process, a few centimetres of skin and self exposed with each move forward. Every step Will makes away from his current entrenched position will leave him seeking new guidance and looking to Hannibal to provide it. “You are capable of so many things. I’m sure you can find an outlet that will bring the satisfaction of your current work without subjecting yourself to its constraints.”

Will’s staring at him with swelling intensity and lightly parted lips, his blue gaze fixed and fierce, and for a moment Hannibal is sure he sees the purity of his vision, the masterwork to be unveiled behind the curtain of his words.

Then Will shakes his head and looks away towards the windows, slumping back into his seat with a sigh. “I could move into pure research, go back to the insects and detail the effects of local microclimates.”

“That would certainly be a less stressful environment,” Hannibal says, professional, neutral. It would distance Will from Alana’s countering influence. It would remove him from the immediate temptation of exposure to his murderous needs. A delicate balance of pros and cons.

Will doesn’t reply, only watching the snow drift past the glass, his fingers shifting restless over his thigh.

And then he’s gone, with no change, signified by nothing except an unusual stillness.

Will is never still. He circles, he sighs, he touches the objects around him and his eyes cover all of the room or they look directly into the depths of another, no middle ground between avoidance and addiction.

Hannibal moves to the floor alongside Will’s chair and the discarded clothing, crouching there, fingers on his wrist, monitoring his pulse, finding it steady and even. “Will? Can you hear me, Will?”

“I hear you.” Will’s head shifts his way to look, but there’s no animation in his face or his eyes.

He presses his other hand to Will’s forehead, feeling the heat within him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Hannibal.” Not Doctor Lecter. Hannibal.

His fingers slide over Will’s temple, sweeping away a curl that clings to the sweat, the soft flush of fever seeping through his skin. “Do you trust me, Will?”

“Yeah.” The answer is immediate, unquestioning, the simplicity of Will’s unrestricted subconscious, and all the more pleasing for it.

This is the Will who drove four hours from West Virginia to Baltimore with no recall. He’s perfectly functional, aware and responsive, but lacking any interaction with the amygdala or hippocampus, minimising emotional responses and ablating long term memory formation.

It’s fascinating, from a neurological and psychological perspective, and yet Hannibal remains hollow in the presence of this echoing facsimile.

There’s no telling how long this might last. It could be minutes, or several hours.

He modulates his voice into something warm, firm, gently assertive. “You must listen to me now, Will. I want you to think about the things you want for yourself. The things you want to do.” His hand drifts along Will’s hairline where the curve of his ear emerges from the damp tangle of curls. “Not the things people have told you to do. Not the things you think you _should_ want. Those aren’t important. Those things can never make you content, Will. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. I do.” Will’s answer is calm and entirely absent – he could be a doll, but for the sweat beading over his skin. His pulse speeds slightly beneath Hannibal’s touch, and then he blinks and moves and becomes himself again.

He stares down at Hannibal, on his knees beside him, and Hannibal releases his wrist. “Will, what’s the last thing you remember me saying to you?”

“You were talking about a change of job. I said entomology.” Will’s head tilts up towards the balcony and he sinks physically deeper into the chair. “How long was I gone?”

“Only a minute,” Hannibal says, his words level and unstressed. “Two at most.”

Will’s eyes drop instantly to the watch on his wrist. His subconscious may trust Hannibal, but Will is still compelled to double check. He gathers himself when he sees the statement confirmed. “That’s not too bad, I guess,” he says with an arch of his eyebrows. “Better than taking a road trip in the snow.”

Hannibal pushes himself upright, fingers curling into the leather of the chair arm instead of the fabric tautly tempting over Will’s thigh. “I concur,” he says, matching Will’s light tone as he returns to his chair. “Though it appears I have once again missed my opportunity to take a drive with you.”

There’s still tension drawn through the lines of Will’s muscles where the cotton clings, but he’s smiling for the first time this session. “I admire the level of your commitment to diagnosing your patients, Doctor.”

He doesn’t remember Hannibal’s instructions, and they are equally unlikely to linger within, to hold influence.

There are ways to change that, to enhance it. To keep Will in the more suggestible state long enough to fertilise those sprouting seeds, to speed his poet’s journey through the underworld towards Eden.

Next time, he’ll be prepared.

******

Hannibal is unsurprised when Will locks into stillness midway through the following session. His physical deterioration is obvious and it’s clear from their conversations and Will’s increasing openness in discussing his symptoms that the blackouts have become more frequent. In all likelihood, Will himself doesn’t grasp how often they occur now, the minor skips in time of a minute or so simply passing unnoticed.

Hannibal has the drugs accessible, the dosages already calculated, and he kneels quickly by the chair and takes Will’s hand. “I can help you, Will. You only have to trust me.”

Will stares blearily from beneath the tangle of sweat-soaked curls, alert and aware and yet eerily not. “Okay.”

Hannibal smiles soothingly up at him. “Good. This will only take a moment.” He exposes the skin of Will’s forearm and slides the needle into his vein, injecting the contents and watching his pupils dilate as his brain accommodates the chemical influence.

He withdraws the needle and immediately presses down, careful not to leave a revealing bruise under the skin. “Are you here with me, Will?”

Will blinks in slow puzzlement at the question. “Where else would I be?”

“Nowhere,” Hannibal says softly. “You don’t need to be anywhere else. Only here.” His fingers are counting Will’s heart rate, while he’s visually assessing his respiration and leaning closer to check the movements of his eyes.

Will looks back at him from only inches away, then down to where Hannibal’s holding his wrist. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“No, Will,” Hannibal says, reaching to tilt Will’s chin so their gazes lock once more. “There is nothing wrong with you. There never has been. You are exquisite just as you are.”

Will stares with fixed, luminous eyes. “Exquisite.” His tongue slurs the word, syllables dragging under the influence of the sedative.

“Oh, yes.” Hannibal assures him of that truth. Will is delicious indeed, glistening beneath a layer of fresh sweat with swollen pupils and heaving chest – Hannibal imagines he would look much the same after a prolonged session of intercourse. He is breathing fast and slightly laboured, but his colour indicates adequate oxygenation and his capillary refill time remains steady.

Hannibal would very much like to sketch him, to tether the beauty of this moment to the page as thoroughly as to the rooms of his mind palace, but these opportunities to steer his poet may be limited. Satisfied with the effect of the drugs, Hannibal adjusts the strobe on the side table to point directly at Will. “Look this way for me now, Will.”

Will does, immediately, an instinctive faith that flares hot inside Hannibal’s chest, the poet’s unthinking trust in his guide necessary to the survival of both.

He sets the light flashing.

Will’s pulse jumps with the stimulation, his sensitised brain and nerves adding to the chemicals already circulating through his system. His body tenses and his nose wrinkles. “Is something burning? It smells like burning.”

“There’s no burning, Will, you’re safe here,” Hannibal tells him, his fingers squeezing briefly to back up the words.

He increases the frequency of the strobe, slowly, twisting the dial by touch, his attention wholly on Will.

Will’s eyes roll back and his body starts to twitch, the convulsions shuddering through his muscles.

Hannibal studies the effect for perhaps ten seconds, then reaches over to switch off the light. Will continues to seize through a few more stretching moments then sags into relaxation, his head lolling against the leather, his tongue flicking repeatedly over his lips in the disorientation and nausea of the post-ictal phase.

Hannibal reaches out to stroke gently over his cheek. “Will? Will, do you hear me?”

Will’s eyes tilt towards him, glazed and ringed by the white of fear. “I… yeah… I…”

“Listen to me, Will. I need you to concentrate now.” He settles a hand on Will’s knee, the grip of his fingers firm and steadying. “Do you remember what we were talking about?”

“I… I… no…” Will’s confusion leaps from his face and stutters through his voice. “We were talking?”

“Not about anything that matters.” Hannibal soothes him with words and touch, and Will’s pulse slows and calms. “You are going to be fine, Will,” he says, and he lets his satisfaction and confidence flow through his speech. “I can help you return to yourself, your genuine self.”

Will lets out a shaky breath, and the next he takes is deeper, more controlled, his eyes seeking the truth in Hannibal’s. Will is calming far more quickly after this episode of memory loss, his faith in his guide’s stability rapidly restoring his own.

Hannibal smiles, and Will’s lips twitch in return.

Hannibal has his proof now – he can induce total amnesia as needed.

Will is able to begin his more intensive treatment regimen.

******

Will’s capacity to surprise has long been a large part of his appeal, but even with that knowledge as a base, his arrival on Hannibal’s doorstep with Abel Gideon held at gunpoint surpasses all of Hannibal’s expectations.

He’s clearly suffering a fever spike and having difficulty differentiating hallucination from reality, but even in that state, he was able to locate and apprehend an escaped prisoner when the rest of the authorities failed.

He is remarkable, his brilliant poet. When his inspiration finally aligns with his nature, he will be truly miraculous to behold.

He also presents Hannibal with something of a conundrum. Abel Gideon can’t be left alive to tell the story of this evening’s outing, but Hannibal has already defended himself from one murderer on his property this winter. Another would seem to go beyond mere misfortune.

Will is distressed and fevered, malleable, and Hannibal invites them inside. He has time to determine the mental state of both his guests and factor it into his desired outcome.

“Who do you see, Will?”

Gideon wisely chooses to remain silent while contemplating the barrel of Will’s handgun, a factor which can only add to Will’s illusion that he’s looking at Garret Jacob Hobbs.

Gideon watches Hannibal, the remnants of a studious, analytical mind emerging from beneath the one shattered by Chilton, and he offers no comment even when Hannibal assures Will that only the two of them are present.

Will grows ever more frantic when Hannibal states that they are alone; his jaw quakes with tension, the weapon wavers in his hand, his body rocked by shivers of disease and stress as the acrid stench of his fear rises. He is caught between the truth before his eyes, the image he sees in his mind, and the words his trusted guide is insisting are real. Caught and stretched in three directions, drawn taut until the tension is beyond tolerance and his brain snaps into uncoordinated electrical spasm, his neural network overwhelmed, his body and consciousness lost to the waves of nonsensical impulses.

It’s the first spontaneous seizure that Hannibal’s been aware of.

He untangles the gun from Will’s hand, lest a twitching finger cause it to fire, and then checks on his patient, assessing him through the convulsions. The seizure is short, perhaps thirty seconds in duration; the encephalitis is still fully reversible, but it may not remain so for much longer. Will should begin treatment soon, before damage to his brain risks becoming permanent.

Hannibal has less time left to work with his poet than he had thought.

Will in his post-ictal phase will remember nothing, and Hannibal has been given this moment to attend to his other guest. “He’s had a mild seizure.”

“That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

Doctor Gideon is a predator, and even in his confused state of identity, he possesses an instinctive awareness of another.

Hannibal has steered predators before, many times. He needs only to offer them what they want.

This one wants Alana Bloom.

******

With Gideon gone, Hannibal returns his attention to Will, monitoring and guiding him through his recovery to full consciousness.

Will listens to him, responds to him, allows Hannibal to touch and shepherd him, and Hannibal smiles at this fresh display of offered trust. He rarely allows himself the pleasure of comforting his poet with physical affection - Will in his full capacity is wary of overly-demonstrative actions - but here, in the aftermath of the seizure, they are both able to experience the benefits of such gently expressed care.

The heat pours from Will’s skin in a flood of sweat and salt and pyrogenic cytokines. His body is entering a catabolic state, the fever initiating protein breakdown and cell death throughout his body. Will tilts his head just slightly into Hannibal’s hand placed on his forehead, and Hannibal allows his fingers to stroke barely along Will’s cheek when he draws it back.

Hannibal cannot allow his beautiful poet to be damaged – the desecration of such a perfect mind would be anathema, a failure of his calling to protect his charge on their journey towards enlightenment. 

Will must kill before the disease is treated; its influence weakens the barriers he’s spent decades building, allowing his true needs to seep through the layers of his leaden cloak into his thoughts and actions. If he unleashes his violence while his mind is pliable, it may root more deeply, speeding the re-integration of his sealed away desires into his everyday self.

Hannibal leaves Will with his gun, his car keys and a profoundly concerned comment about Alana.

He drives over to Cheswick and sips coffee in the late night delicatessen there, waiting for Jack’s call.


	3. Chapter 3

Will doesn’t kill Abel Gideon.

Hannibal stands at the foot of the hospital bed where his poet lies pale and sweating and only semi-conscious, watching the fluids from the IV drip into his vein. It’s unclear if it was Will’s intent that failed or his body, unable to hold a steady aim through the tremors of his fever before he collapsed.

Hannibal strongly suspects the latter. The encephalitis must be delicately balanced to be effective – progressing far enough to lower the inhibitions imposed upon Will by society, yet not to the point he’s unable to follow through on his motivations.

Perhaps this hospital stay is well timed for their purpose. It’s likely that Will has poor recall of many of the evening’s events; even if he had killed Gideon tonight, it might not have laid its full effect over his psyche.

Hannibal has no fear of Will receiving a diagnosis in the next few days. His medical records contain the deceptive, normal MRI from only two weeks ago, and the doctors here won’t repeat one, not yet. Will’s treatment will be symptomatic, targeting the fever and the inflammation, not the cause. He will improve, he will be discharged, and the cycle will be reset.

Will wriggles and twists on the bed, restless beneath the confining sheets, his lips moving in soft murmurs that aren’t quite words. Hannibal moves closer to press his hand along the line of his jaw, stroking gently over the roughness of stubble. Will turns his face into the touch, and mutters a little louder, yet still not reaching coherence.

Hannibal closes his eyes and savours the sensation of Will’s skin a few moments longer before he steps away. He’ll return tomorrow when Will is fully conscious and bring him something nutritious, something more suitable for his recovery than the hospital’s food.

He deserves it. His poet will need his strength to negotiate the rest of his path through the underworld.

******

Will discharges himself from the hospital with his condition still undiagnosed, as Hannibal so easily predicted. He has prescriptions for anti-inflammatories to stave off the fever, combined with antibiotics while his baffled physicians attempt to cover all possibilities.

He prowls the enclosure of Hannibal’s office, no longer scared and shivering; he is deliberate, purposeful, focussed.

He is glorious in his fervour, his ire, in his zeal to expose the truth of what is happening around him. And what is a poet, if not one who seeks to unveil the perfect truths that would otherwise remain concealed from any vision but their own?

Will’s only flaw is his failure to see that the truth should be exposed in himself, not just in others.

The anti-inflammatories he swallows daily have been too effective, his mind now as sharp as the claws of the Malebranche, the demons who rend the bodies of the sinners in the eighth circle of hell. “This could be someone at the Bureau, someone in the police department, someone who knows the crimes and has access to the investigations.”

Hannibal’s name isn’t on that list, Will’s faith in his guide yet unshaken, but it will be soon. It will grow there when Will connects everything he now believes of the copycat killer with his old thinking about surgical expertise.

Hannibal looks away and swallows, a subtle show of disappointment, perhaps even pain. “Will, this is venturing into the paranoid.” 

Will stands before his chair, staring down at him with full eye contact and unflinching certainty. “This isn’t a delusion. I’m not hallucinating, I haven’t lost time. I am awake and this is real.”

Will won’t be distracted; his course is fixed. His determination sets them both upon a road that leads to disaster, Hannibal unveiled before a world that comprehends nothing and Will snatched far away from him, his poet left to stagger forever beneath his cloak of lead, no guide to show him the path out of his suffering.

Hannibal blinks slowly and breathes out through his nose, his fingers tapping on the edge of his chair a moment before he looks back up at Will. “Have you told anyone else about your hypothesis?”

Will circles away again, restless and predatory. “I told Jack and the forensics team. I didn’t want to say anything to anybody else in case it was the killer I was talking to.”

“And what was Jack’s reaction?”

Will takes a deep breath and raises his eyebrows at Hannibal as he turns back to face him. “My recent behaviour hasn’t inspired confidence in my way of thinking.”

“It’s understandable that there would be doubts,” Hannibal says gently. “You have been very ill. You have improved with treatment, but I believe you still are.”

Will shifts his weight forward, staring down, his face tightening. “You think I’m crazy.”

Hannibal drops his eyes to his lap, allows his hand to twitch on his thigh. “I’m perhaps as unsure about my own understanding as I am about yours. I believe many of your symptoms can be attributed to the stress of your work, but your collapse outside Alana’s house resulted from physical issues which I miscalculated the severity of.” He looks back up to Will, unblinking, soft and exposed. “I find it difficult to remain entirely impartial in my judgement where you are concerned.

He has no need to feign his sorrow, his tenderness; he only allows them to bleed onto the surface. He desires nothing more than to aid his poet, to save him from his self-inflicted Inferno, but his capacity to help is still limited by what his poet is willing to accept.

The tension disappears from Will’s stance, his forehead smoothing. “You want to believe me.” He speaks slowly, almost curiously, something like surprise tangled with a rare flash of his oft-concealed affection.

Hannibal does believe in Will, with no flicker of misgiving. He also knows it’s too soon. “I want to believe many things about you, Will. I only wish I could be more certain, for both our sakes.”

Will smiles weakly and takes a breath then resumes his circling, his body mirroring the patterns of his racing mind, reassured once more of his safety in this space.

Hannibal watches him tread his pathways, lost once again to his internal puzzle that Hannibal cannot allow him to solve.

He’s bought himself time to arrange what must now be inevitable.

He feels no guilt. He has spoken their truth, and Will won’t hear it. Not yet. Hannibal cannot drag the leaden cloak from his shoulders by force – his poet must choose to cast it aside for himself.

Hannibal will give him time to reflect, and to see.

******

He raps on the half-open door to her office, two knocks in quick succession.

She looks up from the papers on her desk and smiles. “Hannibal. Come in.” Her voice floats light and breezy, matching the cut and flow of her dress as she stands.

“I apologise for disturbing you at work, Alana. I was told you would be breaking for lunch shortly.”

“I should, but sometimes the paperwork wins.” She makes a face as she gestures towards the patient files arranged neatly across the laminate. “I’m still catching up after my time playing at house arrest while Abel Gideon was loose. What can I do for you?”

He pushes the door mostly closed behind him and steps closer to her desk. “I was wondering if you have spoken with Will since he discharged himself from the hospital?”

Her forehead wrinkles in a delicate frown. “I haven’t, no, we’ve both been busy.” She studies his face, sharp eyes seeking and finding. “Is there a problem? I went to visit him while he was there and he seemed to be much better.”

He lowers his eyes and picks at a non-existent piece of lint on the cuff of his suit. “Will came to my office this morning. He said some things that concerned me.”

“Things you can’t tell me about, since he’s your patient,” Alana states, her voice flat.

“It wasn’t a scheduled session,” Hannibal says quickly. “He only wanted to discuss some theories he has about Garret Hobbs’s copycat.” He pauses for an obvious steadying breath, and meets her gaze again. “He also mentioned Abigail.”

Her frown sharpens and her lips tighten down to a line. “What about Abigail?”

“He raised the idea of taking her to Minnesota.”

“Minnesota?” Her mouth lingers open between her words, her eyes stretching wide. “Hannibal, he’s only two days out of the hospital, he shouldn’t be travelling anywhere, especially not with Abigail! What is he thinking?”

He lets his eyelids close, slowly, despairingly. “I believe Will may be placing his obsession with the copycat ahead of Abigail’s welfare. He wants to walk her through the killer’s actions, beginning with the phone call.”

She leans forward, her weight supported on her hands curled around the edge of the laminate. “He can’t! She’s already been traumatised by Jack and his tactics with Nick Boyle, she’s not ready to deal directly with her father’s attack on her mother or herself.” Her lips snap down to the likeness of a shrunken Psychotria petal. “I’m calling the clinic.”

She picks up the phone from her desk and Hannibal turns away and studies the spines of the books on her shelves, offering a semblance of privacy as she speaks with the staff on Abigail’s ward.

He listens to every word from Alana, but the rest is impossible to decipher.

Alana ends the conversation a few minutes later, and some of the concern has eased from her features. “Will’s with her now, but he hasn’t applied to take her outside the hospital. Abigail has a meeting with Freddie Lounds scheduled later, so I don’t think she has any plans to leave either.”

Hannibal allows relief and regret to play over his features. “Perhaps I over-reacted. It may only have been a fleeting idea that Will has already realised the folly of.”

“Maybe. For now, I’ve told the staff not to let anyone sign Abigail out of the hospital without checking with me first.”

There’s a tightness around her eyes and Hannibal deigns to add contrition to his repertoire, acknowledging his own prior abuse of authority regarding Abigail’s movements. “That might be for the best.”

She angles her chin to look up at him, accusation dropping away as she studies. “You really are worried.”

“I’m concerned for Will’s welfare,” he says, letting his breath out in a soft sigh.

Her eyes narrow, her eyebrows slanting. “Will’s. Not Abigail’s.”

He swallows, and both his face and his tone pull taut. “I can’t disclose anything more to you than I have, Alana.”

Her knuckles are white, her grip on the desk exaggerated. “So there is something to disclose. Something his friends don’t know about.”

He half-turns and places his hand on the edge of the door. “I’m sorry, Alana. It wasn’t my intention to worry you. It’s probably best if I leave now.”

“Hannibal, wait.” Her voice and her body language have softened, her contrition far more genuine than his own. “You’ve come all the way out here, the least you can do is take me to lunch.” She tips her head, her hair sliding back across her shoulder as she smiles. “I promise not to subject you to any more uncomfortable questions about your patients.”

He waits long enough for her to see him consider, then shifts on his toes, glancing her way with the beginnings of a smile. “How could I refuse such a delightful offer?”

******

The seeds are planted in Alana. They come to full fruition in Jack.

Jack even makes it easy by approaching Hannibal, his proven suspicions of Abigail’s involvement in her father’s murders leading him directly to questions about Will.

Hannibal lowers his eyes and tells Jack everything he doesn’t want to hear.

******

Will doesn’t kill his guards when he escapes from the prison ambulance. He is skilled enough to achieve it while inflicting only temporary damage, and it’s unsurprising when Hannibal finds him crouched in his office some hours later. Unsurprising, but for the rapid flush of pleasure and warmth that suffuses him at the first glimpse of orange, motionless in the corner of his eye.

Will knows that Hannibal protected Abigail over Nicholas Boyle, and he trusts his guide now to aid and shelter him. Will trusts him with his freedom, with his life.

Hannibal won’t break that trust. He will give him refuge and support, and he will take him to Minnesota to discover the truth, about both of them.

He will help Will peel back the cloak of lead and reveal who he truly is.


	4. Chapter 4

Bedelia hands him his glass of Malvasia and takes her seat in the opposite chair, her legs crossing elegantly at the ankles. He swirls the wine within the glass, sampling the bouquet of manga and papaya before he allows the first sip to slide over his tongue. It’s pleasingly dry and full-flavoured, with a lingering bitter almond finish.

She watches him quietly, drinking from her own glass, letting the silence settle and lengthen for more than a minute before she breaks it. “Have you been to see Will Graham at the hospital?”

He stares past her to the pale fall of the elegant curtains, tasteful Belgian flax plunging between ceiling and carpet, rippled in facsimile of the waterfall that drops from the cliffs into the deepest circles of hell. He considers the options for his answer, the level of detail, and decides to offer the simplest truth. “I have.”

Her eyes rest heavy on him, the weight of them palpable in the still air. “Your reticence suggests the outcome of your visit was displeasing to you.”

He contemplates the glass nestled between his fingers, the wine it holds the product of years of careful planning – the vines planted on select dry slopes and tended to maturity, the grapes harvested at the ideal moment, then pressed and fermented and stored under highly specific conditions. “Will has rejected any concept of our friendship. He blames me for his current circumstance.”

Bedelia’s own hands are still in her lap – she hasn’t touched her wine beyond that first taste. “It’s not unusual for a patient to blame their therapist when therapy fails to achieve the desired outcome.”

He exhales and lifts his eyes to hers. “I know.” He’s fully cognisant of Will’s struggle with perceived betrayal and abandonment, his inability to forgive his mother those sins. It’s one of the reasons he must visit, must continue to reassure Will that he is not abandoned, that his guide remains with him through even their harshest trials.

Her lips soften, the shape of them wider within the mask of her face. “How did you assess his frame of mind?”

Hannibal smiles gently at the memory, the starving, wolfish creature glimpsed between the bars of a cell. “He is more grounded than I have ever known him to be. His determination to prove his innocence has given him a singular focus.” Will is magnificent to behold, his brilliance only enhanced by the aesthetic paucity of his surroundings; his desire to inflict violence, to kill, radiates dark and fierce in his eyes, as Hannibal always knew it would, crackling through the air of their shared gaze, a truth seen and recognised by both. It was fascinating to watch its emergence in the Hobbs kitchen as Will stood in the dried splatter of Abigail’s blood, but it was hampered then by fever and the wistful threads of lingering doubt.

Now, when his poet is fully present and aware, it is breath-taking.

Bedelia’s chin lifts slightly, the lines lengthening around her eyes. “His focus is of no benefit if his belief in his innocence is delusional.”

Hannibal’s free hand brushes lightly at the worsted wool covering his thigh. “It’s unusual for Will to be so comfortable with his own state of mind. I’d like him to preserve that state for the moment, while he adapts.” He feels a twitch at the edge of his lips, the brush of humour. “Currently it seems he can only maintain stability if he believes he’s not a killer.”

Bedelia absorbs that, unblinking. “Do you suppose he will ever adapt to thinking of himself as a killer?”

Hannibal has never felt that certainty prick him as sharply as it does with Will Graham. “I do. I’m sure I can help him achieve it.”

Her stare holds the clarity of ice, crystalline layers built into a rock-like certainty. “You cannot help him as a therapist while he believes your intentions are contrary to his interests.”

Hannibal has no hesitation meeting it. “I can continue to support him as a friend.”

“That becomes more difficult when he has rejected any concept of your friendship.”

It’s a classic Bedelia tactic to turn his own words against him. He continues to see her because she’s one of the few who know how to wield that particular weapon.

Hannibal rises from his chair and walks to stand by the window, the filtered light seeping through from outside lifting the golden highlights through the wine. “I would be a poor friend if I abandoned Will because his situation has grown complex. It’s a natural reaction to lash out at a nearby target, one that will subside with time.” His role as guide is to remain steadfast, to be the even keel through his poet’s storm.

Bedelia sits upright and twists in the seat, her legs shifting round to bring him back into her line of sight. “You become a problematic therapist when you can’t separate your reactions from those of a friend. You have declined my advice to distance yourself personally from your patient. Will you at least take my recommendation to remove yourself as his psychiatrist?”

Hannibal half-turns to look over his shoulder at her, his face unimpassioned and still. “I cannot officially recuse myself from a role which I have never officially held.”

Bedelia tilts her head, the waves of her hair sliding over her cheek, letting the taut line of her mouth and her silence speak her disapproval.

When his hour is over, he returns to his office and sits in his chair.

He knows Will isn’t coming. He wouldn’t come even if he were free.

He lingers in this space that holds the richest associations with his poet, his scent and his movement, the rapid flash of expressions over his effervescent features. It grants him the fullest access to his memories, opening the doors within his mind, his separation from his poet mitigated. The version of Will he can access here lacks lustre, absent the glittering splendour that has now been unleashed from the man in the cage, but he is still his poet.

Will isn’t coming, yet Hannibal stays.

******

The delivery of the ear is serendipitous, an unanticipated act by a third party that is theatrically delightful, timely and profoundly convenient.

With the death of the bailiff, a new strategy avails itself for Will’s defence, an approach that doesn’t declare him guilty but for a medical technicality. A temptation hard for his poet to resist.

They sit in the hospital’s room of glass with no bars and only a single metre of air between them. Their conversation is unmonitored, and once again they are twining their ideas and their minds around one another for their mutual ends. Free of the muddying influence of encephalitis and distracted from his blanketing hatred, Will’s eyes radiate sharp intelligence, lingering on Hannibal as he examines his words and finds the flaws in every argument. “It would be a lie.”

Hannibal pauses before he speaks, gathers every fragment of belief and forces them into his words. This is his opportunity to prove his dedication, his determination to stay with Will and aid him throughout his ordeal. “I don’t want you to be here.”

“I don’t want me to be here either.” Will’s response is unhesitating; his need for freedom far exceeds any enduring reluctance he may have to enlist help from his guide.

“Then you have a choice. This killer wrote you a poem.” He holds Will’s eyes, impressing his faith through his gaze. “Are you going to let his love go to waste?”

The chains rattle across the table as Will leans back into his chair, his face twisting with distaste. “You see love in this act?”

“Don’t you?” Hannibal blinks slow, his lips half open before he speaks. “Someone has gone to considerable lengths to provide you with an alibi, Will.” That someone isn’t Hannibal, but he understands his motivation.

Will looks down at the crime scene photos spread before them. “I see obsession,” he says, contempt spitting through every syllable. “I see someone who copied what they read in a newspaper article in a misguided attempt to impress the man they think I am.”

“You are not the man they think you are,” Hannibal says, because Will is so much more.

Will lifts his eyebrows, his tone desert dry. “Well, we both know that, don’t we?”

The encephalitis was a tool, and it’s possible that without it Will’s full magnificence would have remained forever suppressed, but watching Will as he could have been, as he should always have been, is sublime. Hannibal doesn’t feel shame, but he can regret that he had needed to briefly smother this masterpiece with a cloth in order to polish him to perfection.

“I know that if you were a killer, you wouldn’t keep trophies from your victims in your home.” Hannibal’s smile ghosts in with the slightest curve of his mouth. “You’re far too intelligent for that.”

Will huffs out air through parted lips. “Oddly enough, that’s not a defence I can use before the court.”

“There is another that you can.”

More intrusive rattling from the chains, and Will reaches forward to plant his elbows on the table, his chin on his hands as he stares at Hannibal, fixed. “Then I suppose I should instruct my lawyer.”

He knows the truth and he chooses to align himself with the lie that best suits his needs; he is devious, ruthless and resplendent.

The hypocrite’s cloak lingers on Will’s shoulders, enfolding him each time he speaks with Alana or Jack, but its hood has been cast aside, his countenance starkly exposed for those who dare to gaze upon him.

He is exquisite, and Hannibal watches him with the rapt intensity of Minos, drawing the truth of sin from every soul.

******

Their strategy fails, barred from the hollow spaces of the courtroom, and killing the judge is an easy choice. It’s a rebuke for the folly of rejecting both a brilliant criminal defence lawyer and an esteemed psychiatrist, and it’s a declaration, a statement of the depth of the guide’s unwavering dedication to his poet.

Will sees everything now. He will see, and he will know.

His acceptance can only follow.

******

“As soon as it begins to boil, we take the pan from the heat and add the flour, stirring it into a paste.” He stands beside her, holding the spoon with her, demonstrating the rhythm to mix the ingredients.

“Like this?” Abigail stares into the saucepan with studied concentration as her wrist works – she’s proving to be an adept student in many ways. Intelligence, eagerness and the inherent flexibility of a youthful mind are a potent combination, and Hannibal is surprised by the pleasure he finds in passing on his skills.

“Exactly like this.” He smiles down at her, at the sheen of her hair scraped back into a ponytail, away from the food. “When it thickens, we’ll be ready to –“

The phone rings shrill across the kitchen and he turns to cast a glare in its direction. Both their hands are covered in a fine coating of flour, but he can’t ignore it; it might be a patient on his emergency line, or Jack Crawford calling about another murder.

“Please continue, Abigail, I’ll only be a moment.”

“Sure thing.” She tilts her head to smile up at him, understanding the privilege of being trusted at this delicate phase.

The ringing stops while he’s washing his hands; when he has dried himself and reaches for the phone, the message indicator is flashing.

It wasn’t Jack Crawford, or a patient. Hannibal stills when he hears Frederick Chilton’s digitised voice.

First come the insincere apologies, the sorrow for not having been able to speak to him in person, and then there’s the meat of the message. “Will Graham prefers that he should have only one therapist during this difficult period of his adjustment, and he has indicated that therapist will be me.” Even compressed by the poor quality of voice mail, the arrogance in Chilton’s words is smug and insufferable. “I’m afraid I will no longer be able to discuss Will’s treatment with you, nor should you attempt to raise the subject of his treatment with him directly if you continue to visit.”

He deletes the message and replaces the phone on the charging stand, gently, not allowing it to rattle.

_If_ he continues to visit. No diktat from Frederick will be keeping him away. Will clearly needs his guidance, now as much as ever. The pressure of starting his trial anew must be a heavy challenge to face.

“I think this is thick enough now?” Abigail’s voice breaks him from his reverie, and after a moment he recalls the fragile state of the pastry dough.

“Yes. It must be close.” He moves up beside her, glancing down into the pan. The dough is forming into a ball, pulling cleanly away, leaving only oily droplets to cling to the sides.

Next there should be eggs. Beaten eggs. Added one by one, then half by half.

He moves across to the kitchen island, where the eggs and bowl are waiting.

“Who was it? Is everything okay?” Abigail’s head is tilted, looking up at him with eyes which expand into deep pools of apprehension.

He smiles reassuringly at her, then turns and cracks an egg sharply into the bowl. “A minor delay to my arrangements, that’s all.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

Her voice hovers somewhere between suspicion and fear, high with a hint of tremor. She holds distinct promise, but she is still a child, and she has lost so much in so short a time.

He sets the eggshell on the countertop, steps back to her side and rests his clean hand on her shoulder, leaning in closer to her height. “Certainly not. I have nowhere better to be, while you are here, and Will.”

At the mention of Will’s name, her eyes shrink and sharpen. “Was it the hospital who called?”

His lips stretch into a brief smile. “You’re very astute, Abigail. A commendable trait, if sometimes inconvenient for those around you.” He blinks slowly, with a measured exhale. “It seems Will no longer wishes me to help him as his therapist.”

“So you won’t be able to see him anymore?”

“Of course I will. I’ll always visit him as his friend.” He lifts his hand to her face, brushes a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “I can no more abandon Will to the mercies of Jack Crawford and the FBI than I could you.”

“You still think you can get him out of the hospital?”

“I have every confidence.” Hannibal begins to whip the egg with a fork, smiling at her over his shoulder. “I’ve been assured by one of the finest minds in the BSU’s forensics department that Will and I make an unbeatable team.” Ms Katz has an agenda not entirely her own, but it doesn’t deaden her intellect.

“Is Will on your team?” She blinks and swallows. “Is he on ours?”

Will is his poet, and remains so whatever the current difficulties surrounding them. “Will is no longer ill, Abigail. He’s very different from when you last saw him. He will be on the side that removes him from his current circumstance, and you and I are the only ones who trust him, who believe him.”

“We believe him because we put him there,” she says, with the forthrightness of a teenager. Abigail doesn’t trust Will, of course. She can’t, not when she remembers him unstable, angry, hovering on the edge of violence. She fled from Will and ran to the relative safety of the house where her mother was murdered and her own throat was slit.

“He harbours some resentment now, but that will fade,” Hannibal reassures her. “When Will is free again, he’ll understand why it was necessary. I had to act to protect all of us, even Will from himself.” He lowers the fork and enfolds her in his arms, her hair soft beneath his chin, feels her tension against him. “When he discovers you are alive, he’ll be so delighted he can’t possibly be angry.” His displeasure with Hannibal for the deception will linger, but Abigail won’t be its target. Will has already demonstrated a very willing flexibility for her sake.

“You think he’ll stay with us?” She doesn’t trust Hannibal either, having spent so many years living in fear of her father. He sees it in her quick, darted glances, the quiet way she slides around the house. She chose Hannibal’s offer of death over Jack Crawford’s looming threat of jail, but the lesser of her evils is not an entirely happy existence.

“It’s a promise.” She’s insightful enough to judge that Will’s presence would be beneficial, a distraction of Hannibal’s attention from Abigail which would allow her more leeway in her life, and if necessary to play the two of them against one another.

She will take time to adjust, to understand how the three of them fit together, how they’re a family.

He’s not sure any more if he fully understands himself.

Will accepted his offer of friendship and assistance at the trial, putting forward a defence they both knew to be a lie, but with that defence struck down, he’s now rejecting him once again. Hannibal had hoped that he’d done enough to demonstrate his dedication and win his poet back to his side, but it seems Will’s issues with perceived betrayal run deeper than even he had realised.

His poet is growing more difficult to anticipate as the weeks keep them apart, impossible at this point to predict or control.

He strokes her hair, sleek beneath his fingers, breathing slowly as he guides them both to relaxation.

He’s holding Abigail, but it’s Will he needs to be closer to now.

******

He collects his visitor pass at the desk and walks the echoing hallways of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

It’s a familiar path – the turn to the right, down the sweeping stone staircase into the room of cages and muted light.

The man watching from behind the bars is less familiar, calculating eyes set within too round a face, the jawline beginning to soften and sag where Will’s is sharply honed.

Coming here is a risk, with Chilton recording every word in the room, but Abel Gideon’s continued existence is in itself a risk.

“Hello, Doctor Gideon.” Hannibal waits, without saying more, allowing Gideon to choose the tone of their conversation.

“Our brains devote more space to reading the details of faces than any other object.” Gideon’s expression would be vaguely enquiring were it not for the dancing of his eyebrows. “Dare I say… I’ve never seen yours before.”

Gideon has no plans to accuse him publicly, it seems. Perhaps it’s professional courtesy.

More likely he’s simply curious what will happen.

Hannibal gives a slight smile and steps closer to formally introduce himself, one gesture of truce acknowledged with another. “I’m Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” There’s little point in delaying introducing the reason for his visit. “I was Will Graham’s psychiatrist.”

He had anticipated some ferocity from Will, a negative reaction to the display of the overly-curious Ms Katz in sections of glass. He had expected more of Will’s ire, more of his laser intent and bitter words aimed at him through the bars. He hadn’t imagined that Will might cut all ties between them, deny him visitation entirely.

Chilton brought Gideon here to talk to Will. Currently Gideon is Hannibal’s only possible conduit to his poet.

Gideon radiates a certain aloof amusement, a recognition that Hannibal is no longer in control of the man who had been so very susceptible when the three of them were together in his house. “You should have been more careful with Will Graham. That young man has got a bone to pick.”

“As a therapist, I’m concerned with finding ways of overcoming… resistance,” Hannibal says carefully, “not building it up.”

“Well, you’ve built up something, Doctor Lecter.” Gideon uses his eyebrows to dramatic effect as he lingers over his name.

Hannibal’s tongue shifts within his mouth, pressing forwards behind his lips. Even Gideon sees it – the connection between them stretched taut and about to rebound, the intensity of Will’s response that goes far beyond a mere grudge.

Will may be punishing him by ignoring him, but he certainly can’t forget him.

“I believe some deconstruction of Will’s walls would best serve his interests in his current circumstances,” Hannibal offers. “It appears he has been deconstructing them with you.” An appeal to Gideon’s vanity as a medical professional and a psychopath could be useful.

“Purely on his own terms and with steadfast motivations.” Gideon doesn’t smile, but the impression of one oozes from beneath his words. “Time and distance might serve both of you well; that’s what I believe.”

What Gideon may think he believes is of no consequence. Currently it is the preference of Hannibal’s poet to decline the services of his guide, and Will’s powers of manipulation are so formidable that they have been effective even upon a psychopath, a psychopath who is fully aware he is being charmed and utilised and yet still cannot resist the offered bait.

Hannibal inclines his head towards the man in the cage. “Perhaps you are right. Thank you for your assistance, Doctor Gideon.” He leans almost imperceptibly closer and affects the shadow of a smile. “I’m very much looking forward to the occasion of our next conversation.”

He turns and walks back towards the stairs without waiting for a response.

Gideon won’t act as his conduit to Will, but he’s learned something about Will all the same.

That will have to be enough.

******

He encounters Freddie Lounds when he leaves the building. She snaps his photo as the door closes behind him, the hospital’s sign framed within the shot.

She’s as unpleasant as ever, brazen in her lack of propriety, forthcoming only when she knows her tidings are unwelcome.

“I am interviewing Will Graham. At his request.” She cocks her head, the curls bouncing alongside her cheeks. “Imagine that.”

He tries not to imagine why Will would want to talk to _her_ while he refuses his guide, but it stings all the same.

******

The pool is a haven, a sealed space of cool light and calm water, coming alive with dancing reflections after his first dive splits the surface.

He swims late in the evenings, when the families with their children are long gone, and even the fitness addicts have mostly departed. Twenty-four hour availability for members is a quality he appreciates.

Swimming is useful exercise. Having this space to himself can add a pleasantly meditative aspect.

The water reminds him of Will, in many ways. It feels malleable, easily moved and shaped before him, yet it remains incompressible, refusing to yield beneath his weight, suspending him easily on its surface. It flees from the scything arc of his arm, yet it never lets him go, clinging around his body; it refuses to be truly constrained, even caged within tiles and concrete.

Will is just as wild, and only ever superficially controlled.

Hannibal knows he needn’t concern himself. Will’s anger will fade and he will turn to his guide once again, understanding that only Hannibal can lead him through the difficult path ahead. Will has aimed loathing at him before, and Hannibal had only to offer him something he wanted, the chance to be declared innocent, to have Will eagerly collaborating again. It’s normal for there to be differences between friends, differences that may lead to arguments sometimes.

He needn’t concern himself, and yet he finds his current circumstances with Will deeply unsatisfying. The lack of contact, the creeping uncertainty of his reception the next time they meet; it’s an itch that crawls beneath his skin, just out of reach of his fingers. Will is taking visits from _Freddie Lounds_, the most uncouth of people, but he still rejects his guide.

He can fix everything with one gesture. He can give them both what they want, himself and Will. 

He will offer Will his freedom.

The timing of it is a delicate matter. Will has evolved so much during his incarceration that Hannibal is loathe to release him before his poet has extracted every opportunity from the experience. Will has learned to put aside his hypocrite’s cloak and stands now confident and unchallenged, freed from its weight and certain in his steps. A longer stay would see him cast it beyond reach, beyond temptation to ever conceal himself within its folds again. Yet a guide is nothing without a pupil, each left incomplete and alone, absent their true purpose, and the variance between the two needs is difficult to unify.

The timing will be critical, and it cannot be quite yet, but Hannibal already has plans in place for when it happens.

Chilton is under the misapprehension that they have each other at an equal disadvantage in terms of their hidden misdeeds. He will learn soon enough how badly he has underestimated Hannibal’s deeds, but that will have to wait until after Will is released. Suspicion must be shifted before guilt can be readily reassigned.

A few more weeks, perhaps, certainly no more. Then his poet will be ready to complete his journey through the underworld and seek enlightenment.

The man who dives into the pool and swims in the next lane is unusual, but not unprecedented, even at this late hour. He’s fast, and Hannibal is happy to abandon his musings and lose himself in the full effort of exertion, utilising him as a pace-setter. The water swirls around him, his muscles flexing and tautening through each stroke, forcing himself towards his physical limits. He comes up panting at the turn, peeling the goggles back from his face, water spilling from his hair.

He’s not expecting the prick of the dart into his shoulder.

Not expecting to wake immobilised with blood trickling from his wrists.

******

Will doesn’t kill Hannibal Lecter, but he comes startlingly close.

******

Hannibal dislikes spending time in hospitals as a patient. It’s a relief to be home, unlocking his front door and sealing himself into the peace of his hallway. He had been weak enough to accept that a transfusion would speed his recovery and facilitate the surgical repairs to his wrists, but he was pleased to discharge himself this afternoon.

He sheds his outer layers and walks through to his kitchen, running fingers over the familiar expanses of wood and polished steel. He is much in need of a shower to wash away the acrid stench of antiseptic, but he starts the coffee brewing first.

He supposes a bath will be more practical, given the dressings wrapped around his forearms. Perhaps he can soak out the ache throbbing across his shoulders. The next time he finds himself restrained, he would prefer not to be suspended from a board.

He’s aware how fortunate he is not to have suffered considerably worse. His attacker had a medical background and made precise incisions which left his tendons intact. He could have killed him efficiently in the time available, but he chose to sever veins instead of arteries and season his victory with conversation.

Hannibal is only alive because Matthew Brown had high levels of both egotism and sadism, and Will Graham composed and conducted their entire opera from a cell in a high security mental institution.

Will is astonishing in every way, continually exceeding all Hannibal’s expectations; brilliant, manipulative and ruthless, his poet weaves bespoke tales to ensnare and exploit everyone he makes contact with.

There’s no question Hannibal will forgive Will this unpleasant misjudgement. It’s already done. Hannibal can’t condemn him for finally and openly embracing the killer he has always been. He is magnificent. He is perfect. He is everything Hannibal knew he could become, and far beyond.

_And behold: a burst of light all of a sudden passed through_  
_every part of the great forest,_  
_such that it struck me: this is lightning, perhaps._  
_But since lightning, as soon as it comes, then settles down,_  
_and this brilliance, shining on, became more and more resplendent,_  
_I said to myself in my thoughts: “What thing is this?”_

_ _ __ _ _

In a moment he can feel the rush of it, the words, the verse in his head, and their meaning floods uncorrupted through seven centuries to touch him, to illuminate his world.

_It struck me, all of a sudden, that the heavens were lit on fire_  
_by the flame of the sun…._  
_The extraordinary newness of sound and the brilliance of the light_  
_enkindled in me such a desire to know their cause_  
_I had never felt something so sharp._

_ _ __ _ _

_ _ __ _ _

The rapture experienced by Dante’s pilgrim as he departed purgatory and caught the first glimpse of the potential ahead, of paradise, it bleeds into every pore across Hannibal’s skin, pricking and lifting each hair along his arms. The desire is all-encompassing, and he already knows its cause.

He is in love with Will Graham.

With his hypocrite’s cloak finally dispelled and his true nature exposed, Will is revealed as a stunning chimera; he is both Hannibal’s poet and his Beatrice, combined within a single unique soul.

His glittering poet has wholly and irreversibly enthralled him.

He’s in love.

It’s startling, the discovery of a new emotion after decades in which they’ve been so sparse. Startling, but not objectionable – such rarity and dazzling beauty can only be fully embraced. Embraced and encouraged, its source uncaged, released from his own aching limbo.

It’s also embarrassing in some respects – he should have recognised the truth of this somewhat sooner, but in his long preoccupation with Will’s mindset, he has neglected to give real consideration to his own. Doctor Du Maurier would be dissatisfied with his complacency, not that he would be inclined to reveal it, even if she hadn’t abruptly removed herself from his orbit. She had already expressed strong reservations regarding the nature of his relationship with Will.

He thinks now of Will spattered with blood as he was after killing Hobbs; he thinks of his own hands reaching to cup Will’s face, of Will tilting his head and smiling into his touch.

His poet has spent long enough in his cage, learning to embrace his desires and his intent; he has proven himself capable of the purest form of murder.

It’s time now to return him to the world where he can reveal his full beauty. Hannibal will tend him and cultivate him through his emergence, and together they will tear down all vestiges of the barriers between heaven and hell. Those two concepts will converge around them, and they will shape their own singular paradise amongst the depths of the Inferno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this fic enough to tell other people, [there's a tumblr post here that you can reblog.](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/post/188840042444/malebolge-on-ao3-summary-the-evolution-of) :-)
> 
> Quotes from Dante's 'Purgatorio' are translated by Jason M Baxter.


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